


Reporting Live From Chorus

by Mayhem21



Series: This is What Family Means [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 13, Season 15 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayhem21/pseuds/Mayhem21
Summary: Five years after the Reds and Blues returned from the disastrous attempt to rescue Church, they’ve made progress building new lives. But they’re all keenly aware of the last remaining hole in their lives: the still broken relationship between Grif and Simmons. But perhaps it’s finally time to for this final wound to heal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: For Fluff Week, if you’re doing it! Could we have a fluffy sequel to This Is What Family Means? Preferably with Grif and Simmons’ reconciliation!
> 
> Author Note: I originally planned to wait until I had this finished to start posting but– I dunno, I just really want to share what I have. And the pressure of reader demand to keep writing will, I think, be beneficial for this story.
> 
> FYI, this story WILL have chapters and scenes from Grif’s POV, as well as others, so don’t get scared off. <3

_Excerpt from Khloe Goodnight’s new biography on Captain Dexter Grif, “The Griffin: Herald of Courage and Bravery”._

The United World of Chorus is a pretty popular beat for reporters these days. Five years removed from the end of its bitter civil war and the capture of the _Staff of Charon_ , it’s worked hard to rebuild. For a journalist, it has a heady mix of local color, excellent food, and the kind of stories of terror, heroism, and self-sacrifice that break hearts and win awards.

Unsurprisingly, it’s also the backdrop for profiles of some of the most notorious individuals to emerge from the Great War -- the soldiers of Project Freelancer. Erick Rottenburg and Dylan Andrews’s three book _Freelancers_ series is unquestionably _the_ definitive work on the ill-fated Project and its agents. _Get Your Hard On_ by Eduardo Falencki is an entertaining and saucy look at the life of Captain Franklin Delano Donut, and who can forget Elena Wood’s masterful _Red vs. Blue: The Soldiers Behind the Simulation_?

And yet, despite countless news interviews, Special Reports, and a few movie adaptations (of varying degrees of accuracy), there isn’t a historian or reporter alive who wasn’t painfully aware of the hole in the different tellings of Project Freelancer and the end of the Chorus Civil War: the story of Captain Dexter Grif.

The photo that accompanied the incomparable Dylan Andrews’s original story that brought the Reds and Blues to the attention of the galaxy, _Colorful Space Marines Stop Corruption_ (Interstellar Daily), perfectly summarizes Captain Grif’s attitude towards the press. By which I mean, he’s clearly wholly unimpressed and uninterested in every bit of the attention being paid to him and the other soldiers, simulation and otherwise. You can’t look at that picture and not think that he would have stepped out of the frame if he thought he could get away with it.

As a result, when my agent called and asked if I would be interesting in taking a swing at writing a biography of this notoriously private and tetchy individual, I have to admit, I had my apprehensions. It’s also a sign of how desperate the publisher was to finally get Captain Grif’s story that they made a point to _not_ tell me how many other journalists had tried to interview him and failed until after I’d signed the contract.

But signed I had, so with my book advance in hand, I packed my bags and booked the next flight to Chorus.

In the end, I spent two years on that planet. Two years ricocheting from city to city like a ping pong ball as I followed the threads of different stories; two years of writing and rewriting and rewriting again the same stories because there was always just one more layer to it; and two years slowly growing closer to Captain Grif and his family.

I am incredibly humbled that Captain Grif eventually opened up to me as much as he did. The story of his life, contained in this volume, is without question a story of a man who has spent most of his life surviving incredible hardship without ever losing his fundamental desire to protect the people he cares about.

Any part of his life, from his childhood in Honolulu, surviving the fall of the colony world Aurelia, his time as a soldier in Project Freelancer, to fighting in the war on Chorus, has enough in it for half a dozen documentaries. When you put them all together, you find yourself looking at one of those rare people in any generation who plant their feet and refuse to be moved when an entire galaxy takes a swing at them.

In medieval times, the griffin was used in heraldry to represent courage and bravery. A mythical creature with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle, the king of the beasts and birds respectively, I can think of no better symbol for Captain Dexter Grif.

Thank you, everyone, who helped me learn about and tell this story. The contributions of the Reds and Blues, the former agents of Project Freelancers, and the many citizens of Chorus whose lives intersected with Captain Grif’s made it possible to find those hidden layers and moments where one man stared hard into the face of danger and refused to flinch.

Khloe Goodnight

* * *

**Chapter 1**

“Did you really try to sell Red Team’s ammunition like it was some shady back alley deal when you were at Rat’s Nest?” I asked, dropping down onto the sand without any kind of greeting.

Dexter Grif, a man with graying brown hair and a fierce scar bisecting his face, looked up at me with notable exasperation.

I grinned, fluttering my eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. I’d been chasing the man for an interview for months. I’d read through every biography and profile on the Reds and Blues and Project Freelancer, and even studied the fall of the colony world Aurelia, hunting for every possible mention of Grif I could find. And it wasn’t a lot.

“Rat’s Nest,” Grif repeated. He was wearing a pair of green swimming trunks and an open yellow button down shirt. He’d been surfing all morning and had finally come back to land about fifteen minutes earlier.

Not that I was stalking him or anything. It’s just that the house my publisher had rented for me was beach side and I had an excellent view of the spot he’d chosen to drop his things. For the third weekend in a row.

“What do you mean a ‘shady back alley deal’? Grif demanded, looking more bemused than upset.

I offered him a stack of papers I’d printed off when he’d finally emerged from the ocean. “Red Army Case File No. 41278,” I said as he took the stack. “Most of Project Freelancer’s files were destroyed by Agent Washington when he set off the E.M.P. in Freelancer Command but this supposed transcript from the sale of the ammo to Private Caboose and Private Jones of the Blue Army survived in hard copy." 

Grif flipped through the short stack, eyes flickering as he skimmed the pages. He started snickering about halfway through. “You know, I’d forgotten about this,” he chuckled. Once he reached the last page, he offered the papers back to me. I waved him off; I had copies. “What this _doesn’t_ show you is that Jones is the one who started like it was an actual drug deal a few weeks earlier. I think for a while he actually thought Caboose _was_ buying drugs.”

“You’re kidding,” I laughed and he grinned, teeth flashing.

“Cross my heart,” he promised, matching action to words. “By the time I started selling the ammo to Caboose, they were willing to believe _anything_ that might explain him. Drugs was just one of the theories we heard them arguing about.”

“Why were you selling the ammo? For the cash?”

“Nah, nothing like that.” He shrugged and looked out over the ocean and beachgoers frolicking in the surf. “Me and Simmons knew the whole Red vs. Blue thing was BS by that point. I mean, we didn’t know about Project Freelancer, not really, but we knew the war was fake. But we couldn’t convince the others and definitely not the Blues at Rat’s Nest. Which meant they were more than happy to keep trying to kill us. So, I sold them our ammo. They had _Caboose_ on their team. He took out half their guys before they started locking him up. More than we could have managed in that amount of time.”

“That’s really _sneaky_ ,” I replied with fascination.

Grif shrugged again, still watching the people playing in the blue water. “I’m not great fighter. Never have been. And I sure as hell can’t lead people into battle. But sneaky? That I can do.”

“I’d _love_ to hear more about how sneaky you can be.”

He looked back at me, amusement returning in full force. “Now you’re digging,” he teased.

“If only there was a way to get me to stop,” I sighed wistfully. “Like sitting down for a few hours while you tell me your entire life story so I can write it all down in a book.”

“You’re not getting an interview,” he shot back. Happily, he still looked more entertained than mad.

“But I can have anecdotes?”

“You’ve been persistent enough to earn anecdotes.”

“I appreciate your candor, Dexter Grif.”

We shared a grin. Anecdotes were more than I would have gotten when I first arrived on Chorus a few months ago. It was taking time but I liked to think Grif was starting to get used to me. Maybe even liked me a little bit.

His eyes shifted to the side slightly, looking past me, and his face brightened. Turning his gaze back on me he made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “Shoo,” he ordered, “no more reporters. Bitters and Annette are finally here.”

“Your granddaughter?” I asked, turning slightly, knees rubbing against the hot sand.

“I’m not even forty,” Grif corrected automatically. “I’m not a grandfather. And neither Bitters or Matthews are my kids.”

“You let her call you Grandpa,” I pointed out, trying to be helpful.

He didn’t seem to appreciate it. “Kids come up with their own names of people. Now _shoo_. Go away. Family time.” He waved his hands again.

“Thank you for the anecdote,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. I took a moment to shake the sand out of my flip flops, then slid them back on and started the short walk to my beach house. “Say hi to your kids for me!” I called over my shoulder.

I got a Look in response, equal parts amusement and faux menace, but the bright, cheery “Grandpa!” shouted by the two-year old running excitedly towards him stopped any sarcastic retort he may have given me.

After I stepped through the small gate in the fence around my meager backyard (barely big enough for a freestanding grill and a small patio table and chairs), I turned back around, smiling at the happy scene unfolding on the beach.

Grif had his arms full of an excited toddler, pudgy arms wrapped around his neck as his adopted granddaughter planted a wet kiss on his cheek. Meanwhile, Bitters started unfolding a large sheet and setting up an umbrella. He still had the orange tips but the dramatic undercut from his old New Republic profile had grown out. He looked older, more filled out, and generally happier. Married life suited him. I wondered if his husband, Matthews, would be joining them later.

Leaving my flip flops at the backdoor, I returned to my computer and let out a string of curses when I saw the mess of papers on the floor below the printer. The damned thing had fought back when I rushed to make copies of the Rats Nest transcript, refusing to actually _do its job_. Apparently, it had magically fixed itself while I was outside talking to Grif and printed all the jobs I’d queued up trying to get the stupid thing to work. There were days I hated technology.

With an aggravated sigh, I paused to gather up the mess and dropped it on the counter to deal with later, then sat back down at the small bar to type up my latest Grif anecdote. At this point, I had a lot of them: Red Army Basic Training, giving Sarge CPR, the decision to help Caboose rescue Tucker at the desert temple, and more. Nothing that I couldn’t have heard about from others but still. He was sharing pieces of himself, testing me to see what I would do with them.

Even with only the sketchiest outline of his childhood and a piecemeal record of his military career before Project Freelancer, it wasn’t hard to see that he’d been constantly used and abused. I knew others I’d profiled who’d grown up like he had on the fringes of criminal activities. The people in those profiles tended to lie by default and tell the truth only when necessary. So it was important to be mindful with the stories Grif had shared, to get as much independent verification as possible. But so far, all the research I could do checked out everything he’d told me.

Fingers slowing on the keys, I looked out my window. Bitters was out of sight but Grif and Annette were still there, digging a hole in the sand. The little girl’s hands pawed happily at the ground, a bright smudge of blue next to Grif’s yellow.

Another smile spread across my face at the sweet sight. It was a good reminder why I was on Chorus, why the story I was here to find out was so important to tell. In the aftermath of the Great War, there were plenty of stories of thrilling heroics and dazzling heroes. There weren’t a lot like Grif, though. Stories about soldiers from the edges of society, who’d grown up getting their teeth kicked in more than receiving hand up. Soldiers who may not be the best fighters but excelled at surviving and protecting others. And that was Grif’s story. I knew that much from the few pieces I had. And if I could just get him to trust me, I could tell everyone all the pieces he kept to himself. 

* * *

“Morning, Khloe,” Grif greeted me as I stepped onto my back patio the next morning.

I screamed, adrenaline surging at the unexpected welcome.

Glancing up from the datapad he was reading, Grif gave me a once over, taking in the angry flush spreading across my olive skin, humidity frazzled black hair, and ratty pink bathrobe.

Teeth clenched, I debated throwing my coffee at him.

Unconcerned with how close he was to a severe burn, Grif pulled his feet off the patio chair he’d propped them up on and gestured at the table. “I got you a muffin,” he said cheerfully, pointing at a white paper bag sitting at my usual seat. _As thought that made up for sneaking into my backyard_.

My hand tightened on my coffee mug as I started calculating trajectories.

“It occurred to me last night that I should ask you were planning to write about my family,” Grif continued. He cocked his head to the side and set his datapad down on the table next to a travel mug. “In this fancy biography you’re apparently writing about me.”

My eyes narrowed. Interesting. He’d never asked about the book before.

Setting my mug down, I turned and went back into the house, using the opportunity to take a few calming breaths before grabbing my computer off the kitchen counter. Bringing it outside, I sat down and opened the folder with all my notes then gave my uninvited guest an expectant look. He blinked at me for a minute, then stood up and moved his chair around next to mine so he could see the screen.

“I haven’t started writing yet,” I explained as he studied the folders, “seeing as I’m still in the research phase. It’s taking a bit longer than usual,” I added in a pointed voice. I opened the folder titled _Childhood_.

Inside, there were photographs, a few video files, and a long document with my notes and sources. I opened the text file and tucked it to one side of the screen, then clicked on the photos so we could skim through the preview images. At my side, Grif set out a soft sound of surprise. He raised a hand, then paused.

“Can I?” he asked, gesturing towards the computer. 

“Sure,” I replied, rotating it towards him. “By the way, I back this up every night so you can’t sabotage the biography by accidentally deleting things,” I added in a cheeky voice. I didn’t think he’d do that but still. People could surprise you.

“Blast, you’ve caught on to my fiendish plan,” Grif murmured as he scrolled through the photos. There weren’t many of them, just whatever I could find online or in public records. Mostly yearbook photos and a few shots from surfing competitions. He paused on one of the pictures I really liked: Grif and Kaikaina, both clad in swimsuits and standing in front of long surfboards with medals around their necks. They’d both taken silver that year in their respective age brackets and made the local news. “Could I get a copy of that?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Sure, just give me your email and I’ll send it over.” I cocked an eyebrow at him. He’d resisted sharing contact information so far, leaving me to drop by Griffin Events and keep a weather eye out for him at the beach or around town.

His lips twitched slightly and he rolled his eyes. _“Fine,”_ he said. “You were going to get it out of me eventually.” Shaking his head, he turned back to the computer. He ran through the other photos pretty quickly, and watched a few seconds of one of the videos of Kaikaina surfing before switching over to the text document. Almost immediately, his eyebrows went up and he pointed at the screen.

“This is wrong,” he told me, indicating the simple family tree I’d sketched out.

“What?” I leaned forward in horror. That couldn't be right. This was all straight from government records!

“Kai and I don't have the same father. Edwin Carter dated Mom for a long time but he was doing a short stint in jail around when she got knocked up with Kai.” Grif’s voice was casual as he explained but I could see him watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“Well. That’s…” I tried to process what he’d said. “Carter’s name’s on your sister's birth certificate,” I pointed out desperately. I had _copies_ of their certificates!

“Yeah, because putting down the name of whatever john knocked her up instead of her boyfriend would’ve a smart idea,” Grif snorted.

“You don't know who?”

“Of course not, I was _two_. I only know about it because Mom rambled about it when she was drunk sometimes.” He was starting to sound annoyed.

“Right. Sorry.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I rearranged my to-do list. Edwin Carter had died in a robbery gone wrong shortly after Kaikaina had been born so I’d put researching him near the bottom of my list. Time to bump him up and see if I could find prison records to corroborate Grif’s story.

Dexter Grif and his family. Wheels within wheels, secrets within secrets. Sighing softly, I opened my eyes. “Any other egregious errors?” I asked.

He shrugged and turned back to the computer, eyes skimming across the text. After a minute or so, he spoke again. “I don't get why you’d want to write about the son of a drugged up prostitute,” he commented in a soft voice. “I didn't do anything special during the war. Mostly got shot.” He pressed his lips together in an unhappy twist.

My eyes went wide at his words. “Grif, you saved _lives_. You survived hellish conditions that a lot of people didn't and brought hope to so many more.”

Slumping back from the computer, Grif gave me an unhappy look. “If you’re talking about Aurelia, you should be writing about the others who were there. All I did was _not die_. They’re the ones who fought.”

“That’s not true,” I shot back. “I know what the your report said but I’ve heard about your injuries and the state your equipment was in. And your words don't match the statements the UNSC got from the other soldiers and civilians they got off Aurelia with you before they died from the chemical poisoning.

“I don't know what happened to you on that world, Grif.” I lowered my voice, sympathy lacing every word. “But I’m guessing it was bad. And I’m not the only one who thinks that. Other researchers have noticed the inconsistencies. And now that the UNSC has started the cleanup there, it’s possible new evidence will be found that will help us understand what happened.”

“They’re doing what?” Grif sounded absolutely horrified. His tanned skin took on a grayish cast and his hands spasmed briefly before he clutched at the armrests of his chair. “There’s nothing left there!”

“The UNSC disagrees, I guess. You… you hadn't heard?” My voice wavered slightly.

“I don't exactly go _looking_ for news about that place.” Grif looked like he was going to be sick. A lot of people thought what had happened on Aurelia was worse than glassing.

“Shit. Okay, Grif, I _need you_ to hear me out on this.” He was going to _hate_ what I said next. If I’d known he hadn't heard… _Damn it_ , I could have built up to this instead of dumping it all on him at once. “You need to decide who you're going to talk to about what happened there. Me, Dylan Andrews, someone in the media.”

Grif snarled, immediately furious. It was hard not to cringe. He was so laid back most of the time you tended to forget he was six feet tall and mostly muscle. I raised my hands placatingly, feeling especially vulnerable in just my robe and night clothes.

“As of right now, you are the only survivor of that world. The official report on file doesn't fit with what we know _right now_ about what happened there or with the enemy’s military doctrine at the time. Once the UNSC has enough of the poison and radiation cleaned up to send teams down-- Grif, they're going to come talk to you demanding answers unless you put that information out there before then. And the longer you wait, the worse it's going to look."

He didn't answer, instead sitting frozen and horrified, hands clenched tight on the chair. Finally, he swallowed a few times, then spoke, voice creaky: “They’ve really gone back there?”

I nodded, watching wary and worried for some sign of what he was thinking.

“Shit. Fucking _goddamned-_ ” Cutting of his cursing, Grif shoved the chair back, the metal legs dragging noisily across the wood deck. “I have to go,” he said tersely, then, quick as he could, hurried across the sandy yard and slipped through the beachside gate.

Miserable at having caused such sudden distress, I watched as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and walked down the beach. His posture was hunched over, head down, body tense.

Aurelia.

A young colony with just enough resources that it had gotten its own military garrison. Most of which had been wiped out during the initial surprise alien attack. Dexter Grif’s report, his own words, stated he’d slept through the initial attack and had been alone right up until rescue had arrived.

The other survivors who’d been picked up with him (though none had lived more than a few days) cast him as an active fighter working tirelessly to keep as many people alive as possible. Though a lowly private, the other soldiers and civilians alike had described his as the leader of their small band, a man who’d pushed everyone to keep moving, to find new hiding spots and scavenge for food, to keep an ear on known UNSC frequencies in hopes of rescue.

The inconsistency between his words and the others was jarring. It shouldn’t have made it into the official record. But he’d been shunted into Project Freelancer as canon fodder straight out of the hospital and further investigation wasn’t possible. For a while, the UNSC had even counted him amongst the dead. A medal for courage and bravery had been duly delivered along with a flag to his sister back in Hawaii. Soon after, she’d enlisted.

Whatever had happened on that lost world, it had played a significant part in shaping Dexter Grif into the man who’d eventually helped save Chorus. And no one but him knew the truth.

With a soft sigh, I turned away from the beach and picked up the white bag. It had the logo of a nearby bakery stamped on the fold. Peeking inside, I found a chocolate chip muffin. My favorite. Sighing, I pulled it out and dropped the bag on the table. The slightly melted bits of chocolate smearing around my mouth as I took a bite. Then, spotting his abandoned travel mug, I leaned forward and grabbed it, setting it down on top of the white bag. I’d have to return that later. He probably wouldn’t be back today.

As I pondering the mysteries of Aurelia, an idea suddenly flashed in my mind. It was a long shot but… There was one person he might have told about that world. Or at least some small part of what had unfolded there.  

I needed to find Dick Simmons.


	2. Chapter 2

Grif’s hand drifted towards the cupholder of his car, automatically seeking the coffee he’d poured for himself barely an hour earlier. His hand closed on empty air.

“Shit,” he mumbled. With a soft groan, he gripped the steering wheel and rested his head on his knuckles. He’d left the travel mug at Khloe’s. And he really didn’t feel like going back for it. Raising his head slightly, he let it fall again. Then again.

Aurelia. What the _fuck_ was the UNSC going back there? Why couldn’t they just leave that world in peace? And why did he have to hear about it from a goddamned _reporter?_ Even if it was one of the few he’d come to kind of like?

Goodnight’s words flashed through his mind, _“They're going to come talk to you demanding answers unless you put that information out there before then. And the longer you wait, the worse it's going to look.”_

Would they really, though? The UNSC were dicks, that was for sure. He’d spent plenty of nights letting Kimball rant at him about them over the past few years as she fought tooth and nail to secure Chorus’s independence.

But they _were_ independent now. They couldn’t just stroll in and make him talk about it. Right?

 _Fuck_. This was a nightmare.

Uncurling, Grif reluctantly turned the car on and started to back out of his parking spot. He needed to talk to Kai.

The drive home was relatively quick. Even with all the cons and events they put on, Port Mont remained a tourist town and it was currently the off season. The public school system was in session and the weather hotter than the tourists usually liked. So the shops and hotels were relatively quiet and he wasn’t reduced to yelling at the other drivers nearly as much.

Sliding neatly into his parking spot outside the Griffen Events warehouses, he absentmindedly counted the other cars present; with so many weekend events, they offered flexible work hours and a lot of employees took them up on it. Right now, it looked like the lot was about a quarter full.

The energy filling the main office was lower key than on weekdays. As he climbed the winding staircase leading up the the second floor where his sister’s office could be found, a familiar voice floated towards him.

“... and Sarge kept saying _Grab that bull by the horns!_ So I did but it didn’t like that and it threw me up into the air. I hit the ground kind of hard but it didn’t hurt all that much. Then it charged at me but Washington grabbed my arm and dragged me under the fence so it didn’t hit me.”

Shaking his head a momentarily putting aside his worries, Grif paused to lean against the wall near Smith’s desk. “Been a month already, Caboose?” he asked in a teasing voice.

Their most regular visitor turned in his chair and waved happily. He was sitting noticeably straighter than usual and had a line of bruises running up the side of his face and down one arm.

“Hello, Grif! Yes, it has been exactly one month!”

“You got hit by a _bull?_ Sarge has a bull now?” Grif asked with a fair amount of incredulity.

“Sarge wanted the cows to have babies. So he got a bull,” Caboose explained. “It has very big horns.” He paused, thinking through his words. “I was helping him and Washington feed the cows. Washington and Sarge were talking and that’s when Sarge started saying the thing. The bull was all alone in its pasture so I thought it might like a hug and since Sarge kept saying to grab its horns I thought that must be how bulls hug.” Another pause. “I do not think that bull ever learned how to hug.”

“So that’s chickens, two donkeys, three goats, a crap-ton of cows, and now a bull, am I right?” Grif asked, ticking off the different kinds of animals on his fingers.

“We have lots of animals! You forgot Suzie. And the cats.”

“Suzie?”

“Our new dog!” Caboose exclaimed. He clapped his hands together in excitement, wincing slightly as he flexed his bruised arm. “She is a puppy and she is already best friends with Freckles. She is learning to help us with the cows.”

“And how is Wash’s cat hoarding problem?” Bantering with Caboose about the farm was familiar and easy.

“Doc finished his animal doctoring lessons and can now fix the cats. So we have fewer cats than before.” Caboose’s expression changed to one of puzzlement. “Why is making sure the cats don’t make babies called fixing them? It sounds more like breaking them.”

“I have no fucking clue, dude.” Grif shook his head in amusement. “But it’s important to fix the cats; otherwise they keep having babies, remember? Until there are too many to take care of. Wash said that happened on another farm near you guys, right?”

“There were lots and lots of cats,” Caboose agreed. Then he snapped his fingers (or rather, tried to). “Washington told me to ask you if Annette wants a cat. Or if Palomo and Jensen want a cat for the twins. New baby cats appeared on the farm. Washington says someone must have left them. They will be old enough to go to new homes soon and we need to find homes for them because Tucker says we still have too many.”

“I’ll check with Bitters and Matthews and Katie. If you have pictures of the cats, we can also post them around the office, see if anyone else wants one.” Grif glanced at Smith, who nodded enthusiastically.

“I would be more than happy to write and print some flyers,” Smith agreed brightly.

“I will call Washington and ask him to send pictures right away!”

“Awesome, I’ll leave you to that.” Then, to Smith he asked, “Is Kai in?”

“Yes, sir, she’s going over the latest update to the guest list for the film festival,” Smith confirmed.

“Great. I’ll leave you two alone, then.” Pushing away from the wall, Grif gave them a small nod as he moved towards Kai’s office. Just as he was passing the two men, however, Caboose sprang to his feet. Beaming, he wrapped Grif up in a hug.

“You need to come to the farm and meet all the animals,” Caboose told him, as he always did during his monthly visits.

Like always, Grif replied, “Maybe next time.”

He and the others were back on friendly terms, had been for a few years, but… he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to visit. Something about returning to their space, to this more pastoral version of Blood Gulch, just didn’t sit right. His therapist had been encouraging him for almost a year now to consider visiting, even if just for a few hours. But--

Simmons was there.

He didn’t visit Port Mont as much as the others. Each time he was in town, though, Grif felt that long-familiar pounding in his chest, a twisting in his stomach. He had to force himself not to linger too close, not to reach out and touch him-- do _anything_ that might give away the fact that even all these years and his own words to Simmons long ago, he’d never gotten over him.

At this point, Grif had concluded he probably never would. He was stuck on Simmons and would be for the rest of his life, no matter what. It had been a bittersweet realization but also freeing in other ways. When Bitters and Matthews had gotten married two years earlier, there’d been no worrying or stressing about his own romantic future as he sat through the ceremony and the reception afterwards. He was set to Permanent Pining.

Giving Caboose a friendly pat on the back, Grif untangled himself from the taller man’s clinging arms and pushed him back into his chair. “Are you staying with Smith or a hotel?” he asked.

“I am staying with Smith. Abuelita says I don’t get enough to eat at the hotels,” Caboose promptly replied. “I’ll be here for a full week! Tucker and Wash said they would come get me next weekend when they come for the movie thing.”

“Alright, you’ll have to tell me about all that later.” With one final pat to his shoulder, Grif left Caboose to resume his chat with Smith and continued on to his sister’s office.

The head of Griffin Events and master media mogul had her feet propped up on her desk as she examined her datapad, stylus twirling in her other hand. “S’up, bro-bro,” she greeted him as he entered.

“Hey, you, uh, you got a few minutes?” he asked hesitantly, lingering just inside the room.

Something in his tone must have been off; Kaikaina’s genial expression melted away, transforming to one of concern. Pulling her legs off her desk, she dropped the datapad and stylus and pointed at the small couch tucked against the wall. She joined him a few moments later after making sure the door was shut behind him.

“What’s up?” she asked in a soft voice as she drew her legs up onto the couch.

“Uh, so I went to go chat with Goodnight this morning,” Grif began.

“That reporter lady?”

“Yeah, her. Um--” He paused, trying to pin down a specific train of thought. “I know she’s still working on that book and, well, I wanted to know what she was planning to write about, well, you. Bitters and Matthews. Annette.”

"What did she say?" Kaikaina asked.

Grif shrugged. "That she was still pretty deep in the research process." A small, hesitant grin crossed his face. "Apparently, she's having more trouble than usual."  
  
Kai snorted. That was understating things.  
  
He took a deep breath. This was the difficult part. "She also said that-- that the UNSC has gone back to Aurelia. That they've started cleaning up after the attack and occupation. And that-- well, that she thinks they're going to want to talk to me about it," he finished in a miserable voice.  
  
"Oh." Kai blinked for a moment. Aurelia. She knew Dexter had been stationed there for his first military posting. He'd sent her a few letters after arriving, describing the city and the people, the other soldiers in his unit, and just the weird experience of being on a different planet. They’d written back and forth as much as possible, him between grueling guard duty shifts, her between classes and in the evenings while working on homework.  
  
And then, the letters stopped.  
  
The enemy had attacked.  
  
She'd spent months terrified for him, desperate to believe he was still alive but also well aware that no planet had ever escaped the aliens' wrath. As time pressed on and rumors started to spread about what was happening there -- she'd ended up torn. She desperately wanted him to be alive but if the rumors were true… it might be better for him if he was dead.  
  
Instead of simply glassing the planet, the aliens invaded. A few transmissions leaked out early into the occupation, telling everyone about the horror of mass executions, entire cities set afire, people being rounded up and carted away, their fate unknown to this day. The last message to escape was an interference-laced wreck, voice dipping in and out as the video intermittently blurred and turned to snow. What could be made out painted a nightmarish picture: chemical weapons deployed in the atmosphere, human colonists being hunted for sport, and beleaguered bands of survivors cowering in fear of discovery while slowly starving to death.

After that final transmission, Kai told herself Dexter was dead. Because if he was alive, he was hurting, suffering, starving. The media speculated on just how the bands of survivors were making do. They talked about cannibalism, tribalism, and all sorts of horrifying -isms. She hated hearing them talk; each word made her think of her brother and she couldn't stop worrying that he was having to give up everything that made him human in order to survive. 

Over half a year later, one human ship made a daring rescue attempt and managed to snatch several dozen survivors off the planet's surface. All of human space held its breath when word got out, waiting for names of the survivors, praying they'd finally learn just what had happened on Aurelia.

The UNSC refused to release much in the way of details. But they did share the bittersweet story of how the rescue had been managed. A single surviving unit of soldiers launched daring raid on an enemy comm tower and managed to establish contact with the lone human ship in range. One week later, the ship sliced through the alien planetary defenses and launched a pair of transport ships. On the ground, the soldiers secured a landing zone and held off wave after wave of attackers while civilians raced to board the transports.

All told, forty-three people were rescued from the ruined surface of Aurelia, soldiers and civilians alike.

Dexter’s name had been amongst the list of survivors. Then the list of the dead. After the UNSC officer tasked with bringing her, Dex’s only listed next of kin, a folded flag and all the medals he’d been posthumously awarded left, she’d been a wreck for days, drifting listlessly from class to class. By the end of the week, with the UNSC refusing to release any further information about Aurelia, she’d marched into an army recruiting office and signed up. Perhaps as a soldier, she could find out the truth.

She’d managed to hide her colorblindness all the way through her initial health screenings and Basic training through subterfuge and a few strategic sexual favors. As she finished training, a strange, soft-spoken man approached her late one day on base and informed her that Dexter was _alive_ , that there’d been a paperwork mix-up when he’d been released from the hospital. And he could reunite them if she agreed to join the same military research project. And with the war with the aliens over and done with, she didn’t hesitate to say yes.

When she’d finally reached her brother, he was… different. More withdrawn and defensive. He’d been infuriated to see her in armor and overjoyed to be reunited. But he wouldn’t talk about Aurelia. Not with her, not with anyone. He only acknowledged it once and that was to order her not to mention it to anyone.

The lost colony was a sore spot for him. It featured heavily in his nightmares and he’d admitted once, late one night, that the war on Chorus had reminded him a lot of that world.

Reaching out, Kai took hold of one of Dexter’s big hands, threading their fingers together. “I’m not trying to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do,” she said in a soft voice, “but as someone who was on the outside when everything happened there? It would help to understand what exactly went down during the invasion and occupation.”

“I know. It’s just…” He looked away, eyes drifting over the framed news clippings on the wall and family pictures cluttering her desk. “I don’t feel like I have the right to talk about what happened there. It-- it makes me feel like I’m putting down everyone who died there. That I’d be bragging about living when most everyone else died.”

“You’re not, you--” Kai paused suddenly, blinking rapidly. “Wait, most everyone? The UNSC said there were no survivors. Besides you.”

Grif winced slightly when he realized his verbal stumble. “Yeah, well, we both know the UNSC is a bag of dicks. Um-” Lips twisting, his mind flickered back to the weeks he’d spent in the hospital after the evacuation. “The civilians we got off… some of them were kids. Little kids,” he slowly explained. “Last I heard, they were okay. Well, as okay as they could be under the circumstances. But-- It’d be hard for them to recover with the media hounding them, especially since only a few of them would have been old enough to talk about-- about what they’d been through. So the UNSC kept quiet about them.”

“Oh my God,” Kai whispered as she stared at him with big eyes. Her hand tightened its grip. “Dex? I don’t think the UNSC can come in and _make_ you talk. We can double-check with Vanessa. But if there are _kids_ alive now who survived Aurelia? I think you should consider talking to Goodnight about what happened. For _them_. So they can understand what happened.”

Still visibly upset, Dexter didn’t respond. Kai gave his hand a small shake, smiling slightly when he glanced up at her.

“Goodnight seems okay,” she offered. “She actually listens, unlike all those other douchebag reporters that wanted to write about you. I’ve read up on some of her work, she’s got a good reputation. I don’t think talking to her would be so bad.”

“Fine, I think about it,” Grif finally replied. Shaking his head slightly, he tugged his hand free and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll let you get back to work, I know  you’re busy with the last minute prep for the film festival.”

“Okay. Want me to call Vanessa when I get a chance?” Kai asked as she unfolded her legs.

“Nah, I’ll drop her a message,” Grif replied with a dismissive wave.

Grinning, Kai nodded and stood, then wrapped her brother up in a tight hug, which he happily returned. After a few moments, she leaned back and grinned up at him. “Take Caboose with you,” she ordered. “I need Smith to get back to work.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will. Don’t work too hard,” Grif teased, feeling a bit more at ease than before.

“Like you even know the meaning of the word work,” Kai shot back. Untangling herself from the embrace, she made a shooing gesture and circled back around to sit at her desk.

With a final wave, Grif headed for the door. Pulling it open, he found Smith thoroughly distracted by another one of Caboose’s enthusiastic farm stories. Snorting softly, he stomped up next to the visitor and laid a hand down on his shoulder, mindful of the bruises likely hiding under his gray t-shirt.

“You’re distracting Smith,” Grif informed him in a light voice. “Come on, you can come visit Annette until he’s done.”

“Oh! Oops.” Caboose had the decency to look sheepish at Grif’s words.

A look of aghast horror, meanwhile, slipped over Smith’s face.

Grif rolled his eyes. “It’s fine, Smith, just get back to work. And you,” he added, looking back at Caboose. “Come on.”

“Right! Sorry, Smith,” apologized Caboose as he stood. “I will tell you more about the goats later!” With one final goodbye, the taller man followed after Grif as he started towards the walkway they’d added to connect their two warehouses.

“So how has your weekend been?” Caboose asked as they passed half-filled offices humming with quiet activity.

Grif paused, hand hovering over the door to the outdoor walkway. “Interesting,” he finally said. “Went surfing yesterday.”

“Bleh.” Caboose made a face. “Saltwater is gross.”

With a snort, Grif pulled the door open and gestured the other man through to the covered passage. “Better than chlorinated crap or that cow poop filled pond you go swimming in on the farm.”

“The cows are very hygienic,” Caboose corrected him indignantly. “They do not poop in their drinking water.”

“Pretty sure they do,” Grif shot back. “From what Wash says, they’re aren’t exactly the smartest creatures in the galaxy.”

“They’re my friends!” Caboose declared as they crossed into the next building and passed the offices dedicated to the Sports division of the company. “They always come over when they see me!”

“Because you _feed them_ ,” Grif corrected.

“Doesn’t matter,” Caboose sang back. He suddenly broke into a short run, darting over to the door to the Grif family’s living quarters. “Cows are sweet and salt water is not!”

“You’re delusional!” Grif called back as he followed at a slower pace. Shaking his head, he watched as the door swung shut behind Caboose. Annette would be thrilled -- she thought Caboose was one of the most fascinating people ever, had since Bitters and Matthews had brought her home as a tiny baby.

Sure enough, once he was inside, he found Caboose happily greeting the overjoyed toddler. Matthews gave him a cheerful wave from the couch and wordlessly pointed at the kitchen table. On it, Grif found his forgotten datapad and travel mug. There was a sticky note on the datapad with Khloe’s email address.

Picking up the mug, Grif was thoughtful as he carried it into the sink to dump out the cooling coffee. He wasn’t sure if he could talk about Aurelia with the reporter. Not yet, at last. But… maybe there were other things they could discuss.

It was certainly worth considering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grif and Kai's conversation actual proved to be a tricky. Glad I was able to push through it!
> 
> Next chapter, Khloe starts searching for the Reds and Blues.


	3. Chapter 3

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but actually finding the Reds and Blues was proving to be a pain in the _ass_. I mean, Chorus considered them heroes so I’d thought for sure I’d be able to find some kind of mention of them _somewhere_. Even if it was just someone screaming on Basebook about spotting a celebrity. But there was nothing.

Letting out a growl of frustration, I slumped over the counter next to my computer, burying my face in my arms. It was unbelievable how challenging it was to research this book. Just _insane_.

After moping for a minute or two, I grudgingly pushed myself up and rested my chin on a fist, letting my eyes drift over to the fancy bookcase leaning against the wall between the end of the far kitchen counter and one of the windows in the tiny dining nook. Arranged on the shelves were my marked up copies of all the different works that had been published about Project Freelancer, the Reds and Blues, and Aurelia.

The _Freelancers_ series by Erick Rottenburg and Dylan Andrews formed the core of my little collection. Rottenburg, a lauded military historian, had worked for years to gain access to everything the UNSC had about the ill-fated military-funded experiment. Meanwhile, Andrews had ended up a personal acquaintance of the Reds and Blues themselves several years earlier, which gave her an _in_ that was the envy of journalists all over the galaxy. Between the two of them, they’d managed to build an authoritative timeline and understanding of Project Freelancer and its personnel. What’s more, the sections about the Alpha A.I. and its fragments were so well done, they were being cited in committee hearings on a nearly daily basis as A.I. ethics laws were being discussed.

Maybe I could get in touch with Andrews somehow? We didn’t exactly run in the same circles, though. She was a boots-on-the-ground investigative journalist, while I did feature writing and dabbled in freelance journalism. We’d never written for the same news service, never lived in the same cities, or been invited to the same parties.

Just as I was trying to decide if my agent would be able to put me in touch with someone useful, my computer let out a soft _beep_ as a new email arrived. 

The Internet situation on Chorus was... interesting, to say the least. The UNSC was, admittedly, sulking a bit at having to accept Chorus's declaration of independence and was dragging its feet reconnecting Chorus with much of the massive information network.  
  
In response, Chorus had built up its own Internet and technological infrastructure. The reconstruction taking place all over the planet meant they had both the means and opportunity to create the most advanced system in all of human space.   
  
In fact, Dick Simmons, the man I so desperately wanted to speak to, was one of the individuals at the forefront of the information revolution taking place here. The social network site he'd created during the end of the Chorus Civil War, Basebook, was the primary means by which citizens of Chorus were searching for and locating lost friends and family. On top of that, he wrote frequently and passionately online about the need for a free and open information superhighway connecting all of human space. And as one of the leading tech gurus in the _sector_ , people listened.

Thanks in part to his efforts, the UNSC had been persuaded to at least reconnect Chorus to the big email providers, online encyclopedias, and other resources it had lost access to during the Great War. There was a lot of hope that, in time, they’d eventually have full and free access to the rest of the centuries-old network.

And that would certainly make my work easier.

Turning away from my inward musings, I let my head loll sideways to look at my computer and see who had sent me the email. My breath caught. Was that--

 **Dexter Grif --** **_Thanks for the del…_ ** **11:07 AM**

Holy shit, he’d emailed me. A soft, high pitched _eeeee_ leaked out of me like the sound of air escaping a balloon. With a quick, eager gesture, I opened the message.

 ** _Dexter Grif_** **_11:07 AM (1 minute ago)_**

**_to Khloe Goodnight_ **

**_Thanks for the delivery_ **

_Matthews told me you passed my stuff off to him when you ran into him while he was out doing stuff. Thanks._

_Click here to Reply or Forward_

A direct line of communication. _Excellent._ This meant he didn’t hate me for springing the news about Aurelia on him earlier.

Hands hovering over the keyboard, my mind raced as I pondered how to reply.

 ** _Khloe Goodnight_** **_11:08 AM_**

**_to Dexter Grif_ **

**_Re: Thanks for the delivery_ **

_No problem. Had them on me while I ran to the store. It seemed easier to give them to him since he was heading home anyways._

_Regarding earlier today, I’m sorry I had to spring the news about Aurelia on you like that. I can send you some articles about the planned cleanup if you’d like to take a look._

_Click here to Reply or Forward_

A faint tingle of excitement ran through me as I clicked _Send_ . Whether or not Grif realized it, this was a _huge_ step forward for us. Face-to-face communication was full of unspoken nuances and emotion. Text communication, however, could be very freeing. You could take time to think, carefully craft a reply, and send it from the safety from your own home. And not having to sit and immediately bear the brunt of whatever emotional response resulted from your words made a lot of people feel safe. And that safety and comfort led many sources to open up about topics they’d never talk about in person.

 ** _Dexter Grif_** **_11:10 AM_**

**_to Khloe Goodnight_ **

**_Re: Re: Thanks for the delivery_ **

_Sure._

_Click here to Reply or Forward_

**_Khloe Goodnight_** **_11:11 AM_**

**_to Dexter Grif_ **

**_Re: Re: Re: Thanks for the delivery_ **

_Here you go. These hit all the main points. I have more but they’re pretty much all the same. I’ll pass along anything new when I hear about it._

_By the way, do you have any contact information for any of the Reds and Blues you’d be comfortable sharing with me? I’d like to talk to some of them if at all possible. I promise I won’t pass their info along to anyone or post it anywhere. I understand that they’d prefer to live in peace._

_Attachments: Mysteries of the Lost Col… Interstellar Daily.pdf; Clean-up Begins on Aurelia - Galactic News Corp.pdf; Europa Times Family Prays for Answers.pdf_

_Click here to Reply or Forward._

My fingers twitched as I waited to see how he’d respond -- assuming he did at all. After several minutes without any new emails, however, I forced myself away from the computer and instead start digging out of the fresh fruit I’d purchased earlier to have as a light snack.

I was about halfway through a bunch of the somewhat tangy, light pink grapes Chorus exported when my computer _beeped_ again.

 ** _Dexter Grif_** **_11:27 AM_**

**_to Khloe Goodnight_ **

**_Re: Re: Re: Re: Thanks for the delivery_ **

_Attachments: Tucker_contact.msg_

_Click here to Reply or Forward._

Well. That was something.

* * *

 

 _Ring. Ring._ It was incredible to think that humanity still used the same sounds over and over, for centuries. _Ring._ _Rin-_

 _“Who the fuck is this and how the fuck did you get this number?”_ a smooth voice abruptly demanded. I could hear a dull roar in the background, the chatter of high pitched voices echoing around a room.

“Hi, my name is Khloe Goodnight. I got this number from Dexter Grif?” _Please don’t hang up, please don’t hang up._

_“You got my number from Grif? Yeah, right. Try again.”_

“Grif and I are… acquaintances,” I explained, cradling my phone to my ear while I rubbed the fingers of my other hand against the laminate counter. “I’m writing a biography on Grif and he passed along your phone number after I mentioned wanting to talk to you or some of the other Reds and Blues--” Pausing, a sudden thought struck me. “This _is_ Lavernius Tucker, right?”

Instead an immediate reply, the speaker on the other end of the line remained silent. Sitting still, I strained my ears, listening intently to the background sound of bouncing balls and the squeak of rubber soled shoes. It was hard not to gnaw at my lower lip as I waited anxiously for his response.

 _“God damn it, hang on,”_ Tucker finally grumbled.

The odd background noises suddenly began to fade away. A door opened and closed with a smooth metallic _click-shink-SLAM_. The phone was suddenly jostled on the other end. Distantly I heard him talking to someone else: _“Hey, where’s your phone? I need to text Caboose… Because Grif never has his on him! Come on, just let me borrow it for a sec… I dunno, some historian or something. Seriously, Caroli-- Awesome, thanks.”_

 _“Well, Khloe Goodnight,”_ Tucker declared a few moments later. _“I just sent a message off asking about you. Assuming you’re on the up-and-up, what exactly is it you want?”_

“A chance to talk? To you, Dick Simmons, or some of the others? Like I said, I’m writing a book about Grif. It would really help if I could talk to you or the others about him.”

 _“Huh. You know, no one’s ever really asked about him before?”_ Tucker mused aloud. _“I mean, Dylan had a bunch of questions and he’s come up talking to others about the war on Chorus and stuff, but no one’s ever really focused on him before.”_

“I can see that,” I replied in a dry voice. “From what my publisher has said and my own experience, I think Grif hasn’t been willing to talk to a reporter about anything before now.”

_“Yeah? So what makes you so special?”_

Without thinking, I shrugged my shoulders. “I really couldn’t say. He’s been sharing little stories, here and there. And your phone number. So I suppose he likes me more than any of the others.”

A soft digital hum suddenly sounded on the other end of the line and Tucker made a soft noise.

 _“Looks like you’re legit,”_ he commented in a thoughtful voice. _“Tell you what. Why don’t you drive down to Armonia? We can chat in person. You got armor?”_

“Armor? Yeees?”

_“What, not sure or something? It’s pretty distinctive stuff.”_

“I am sure. I-- It’s just-- _God,_ it’s so uncomfortable.”

That made Tucker laugh. _“Yeah, well, try living in it for a few years.”_

We chatted for a few more minutes, pinning down the specific details of our meeting. A huge grin spread across my face when we finally hung up. _Yes_.

* * *

 

The streets of Armonia were just as busy as they had been when I first arrived on the planet. The roads were busy with military vehicles, armored platoons, and the occasional rumble of heavy machinery. The civilian population mixed freely with the soldiers stationed in the capital, however, and as you moved further away from the military base tucked within one quadrant of the city, you encountered more cars and less armor.

As I crawled down the street, eyes frantically scanning for a parking spot, my heart began to pound and adrenalin spiked in my system. Armornia was safe. Mostly. It’s been almost a year since extremists from the now defunct New Republic or Federal Army had successfully bombed the city. But with Kimball recently elected to a second term, there’d been a uptick in the grumblings from the dissatisfied elements in the population.

Happily, I found a parking spot only a block away from the coffee shop I was meeting Tucker in and nothing exploded around me. Before getting out of the car, I took a moment to go through my bag once more, making sure I had my notebook, pencil case, my mobile interviewing equipment, and, lastly, my helmet.

As a compromise to forcing myself in the cumbersome and confusing military grade armor my publisher had arranged for me, Tucker had suggested I wear the black bodysuit under my clothes, carry my helmet, and pack all the rest into the trunk of my car. Apparently, that was one of the current fashions in the Capitol.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I climbed out of the car and pulled the helmet onto my head. Inside, the HUD lit up as I settled it into place. I’d managed to pin Matthews down before I’d left to get the blasted thing configured properly -- he was by _far_ the most approachable member of the Grif household - and it only took a minute of squinting and blinking and contorting my face in order to pull up the messaging system so I could let Tucker know I’d arrived.

Tucker had said the Reds and Blues had _lived_ in these suits. That must have been a _nightmare_ , I realized with a small shiver. There was no peripheral vision and a constant stream of words, numbers, and charts cluttering up the corners of my vision. And actually interacting with the HUD? Sure, there were a few external controls but everything else was done by blinking and staring, and uttering subvocal commands. The lights and menus that kept flying up into my vision as I stared through the HUD in confusion were already starting to give me a headache.

Still, it was better than wearing the entire kit.

With a heavy sigh, I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and made my way to the coffee shop. I glanced around after stepping inside, the smell of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries hitting my nose a few moments later as the scent wound its way through the air filters. It was a cute little shop, far from the military base and busy medical center. The financial district was close but still a few blocks away. Between than and arriving just after the lunchtime rush, there were few patrons in the shop.

One of the icons in my HUD flashed: a new message had arrived. Stepping to the side, I stumbled my way through the interface and pulled it up:

**LvT: Chilling in the back behind the divider thing. Teal helmet, shirt says “Trust me, I’m the Coach”**

Okay, then.

Pausing long enough to order a small coffee, I wound my way around the small tables scattered throughout the room and circled the wooden screen blocking off part of the back of the shop. Leaning against the wall on the bench seat next to the partition, Tucker was flipping through a tabloid, which had a picture of President Kimball on the cover edited to make it look like she had a baby bump under her workout clothes. Looking up, he dropped the magazine on the table and leaned back.

“You must be Goodnight,” he drawled, helmet tilting slightly to the side.

“And you’re…” I paused, glancing around to make sure no one was in earshot. Pulling out the chair facing him, I dropped down. “Lavernius Tucker,” I finished.

Snorting in amusement, he reached up and tugged off his helmet, setting it to the side as long dreadlocks fell neatly around his shoulders. Relieved, I did the same.

“Just so you know, this is all off the record,” Tucker informed me without preamble. He paused to take a sip from the coffee cup in front of him. “I’m deciding if any of us should talk to you.”

“That’s fair,” I replied, pursing my lips slightly. “Just so _you_ know,” I shot back, “Grif has been sharing stories with me. I’d love you hear your perspective on some of them.”

“Yeah, you said that before and, frankly? I think it’s bullshit. Grif doesn’t share shit with reporters.”

A small smirk crossed my face. I’d expected a tough front. “He’s shared plenty with me. For example, one of the stories I’d love to hear more about is that _Reservoir Dogs_ skit he and the others made for you.”

Tucker’s dark eyes went wide and his mouth slack. Sucking in a quick breath, he slowly, disbelievingly shook his head. “Shit,” he muttered, staring hard for a moment. “He really did tell you that. No one else-” His voice cut off as he snapped his jaw shut.

“No one besides the Reds and Blues knows about it?” I guessed.

“... Yeah.”

There was a brief lull in the conversation as a waitress came by with my coffee. Taking a moment to stir in some sugar and creamer, I took a long sip, cradling the ceramic mug between my hands.

“From what I understand, you had a falling out?” I finally asked. “You and the others with Grif, I mean.”

Lips quirking slightly, Tucker nodding. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. We got over it, though.”

“Just like that?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No. It took a while.” Frowning, Tucker’s gaze shifted as stared past my shoulder. “He… didn’t agree with going on a- a mission that came up about a year after the war ended on Chorus. He said some things. We said some things. Then we left.” Bobbing his head slightly, he looked back at me. “We left him behind. In the end, he was right about the mission. We made it back and… He’d returned to Chorus and set up shop in Port Mont with Sister.

“We all went to go see him at some point. Just a few of us at a time. And, I guess, after a while, the- rift, I guess you could call it, started to heal. Grey- Doctor Grey,” he corrected, “really rode on us for a while to, um, do some therapy.” Tucker squirmed slightly in place, his cheeks darkening slightly in embarrassment. “We ended up doing that. Some more than others. Anyways, between that and, you know, being there for Palomo’s kids, Lily and Logan and then Annette when she came along...” Voice trailing off, he shrugged again with a sheepish expression. “Nowadays, we hang out whenever we came make the trip.”

Something about what Tucker said caught my attention -- or rather, something he _didn’t_ say. “Grif’s never made a trip to come see you?”

Tucker blinking at me for a moment, then shook his head. “No. And it’s weird and lame. As as much as…” Pausing, he gave me a considering look, then leaned forward onto his forearms. “Question. If you’re really getting all chummy with Grif, what the fuck happened between him and Simmons?”

Something had happened with _Simmons?_ Giving him a helpless look, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Humming under his breath for a moment, Tucker finally responded. “Grif and Simmons have been stuck on each other for years, starting all the way back in Blood Gulch. Hell, maybe even sooner. I know they went through Red Army Basic together. Anyways,” he continued, “check it. We got back after the shitty mission from hell and Simmons finally pulls his head out of his ass and goes to see Grif. Completely out of the blue. He comes back late the next day looking like he cried the entire drive and won’t talk about what happened. Then, he refuses to go to Port Mont for, like, a _year_. He always had some kind of excuse. Meanwhile, Grif won’t talk about it either. Instead, they’ve both gone back to the pining and moping bullshit from before and somehow? It’s even worse.”

Now _this_ was interesting. There were rumors, of course, and a lot of writers had speculated about the exact nature of the relationship between Dexter Grif and Dick Simmons… but no one had ever figured it out. And Grif sure as hell had never discussed it. This was _exactly_ why I needed to talk to the Reds and Blues.

“You know, I hadn’t heard about that incident,” I replied, then gave Tucker a sly look. “But I was especially hoping to talk to Simmons about Grif. Who _knows_ what could come up if I could do a proper interview.”

A flash of disbelief crossed Tucker’s face before he burst out laughing. “Damn, you’re persistent,” he snickered. “Fine, lemme make a call.” Grabbing his helmet, he pulled it on and took a few steps away.

While he was, presumably, talking to someone over his helmet comm, I pulled out my notepad and sketched out a quick set of notes covering everything Tucker had told me. And as I wrote, my mind couldn’t help but wander a bit.

Tucker was _fascinating_ , even more so than I thought he would be just from reading about him. There was a richness to his character, an undeniable charisma that couldn’t help but draw you to him. He was in good shape for a retired soldier, hadn’t allowed the post-war years to soften or weaken him. I really wanted to know more about him, and the others, and what they’d been up to over the last several years.

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Tucker sudden declared as he marched back to the table. He placed his helmet on the table and slid back into his seat. “You’re getting a one-time offer to come with me to the Ranch. We like our privacy, so our location stays Top Secret. The others are willing to meet you. Beyond that, though? That’s on you.”

Without hesitation, I picked up my coffee and downed what was left. Staring him dead in the eyes, I gave him a solemn nod. “I’m ready when you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Khloe meets the Reds and Blues.


End file.
